by A. J. Cronin
Paul reached 15 Temple Lane at half-past nine and was fortunate enough to find a man in a green baize apron, who had ap-
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parently just opened up the premises, polishing the brass plate on the outer door.
"Is this Mr. Walter Gillett's office?"
The janitor interrupted his polishing. He was a horsey-looking customer, bandy-legged and with a small bloodshot eye. He answered civilly enough.
"It was."
"He's left this address?"
"Correct."
There was a pause.
"You wouldn't know where he is now?"
The janitor summed up Paul with a sidelong glance.
"I wouldn't say I don't."
"Where can I see him?"
"Well," said the man, with another sidelong glance. "I doubt if you could see him. Still, there would be no harm in trying." He rubbed his nose reflectively. "Would it be worth as much as a bob to you?"
From his depleted supply of cash Paul paid over a shilling.
The janitor spun the coin expertly, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"He's in Orme Square. Quite near here, in the old town, by the City Church. Go down to the end of Temple Lane, turn right and keep straight on. Look around and you'll see his name up. You can't miss it."
Paul had not anticipated so easy or so early a success. He felt the man staring at him as he hastened away, down the long lane of bow-fronted offices.
He found Orme Square without difficulty. It was, as the janitor had said, quite near the City Church. It was, in fact, the City Churchyard, a pleasant old burying ground entered through an ancient black and white half-timbered gatehouse, shaded by tall elms. At first Paul did not fully grasp the significance of the directions that had been given him. Then it dawned on him — Gillett was in the churchyard, dead. He flushed, suffused for a moment by an angry impulse to return and exact satisfaction from the man in the baize apron. But instead he went into the churchyard, and after about half an hour he came upon the object of his search —
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a white marble tombstone tucked away in the corner of the burying ground. He scanned the brief epitaph:
Sacred to the memory of Walter Gillett.
Born 1881 - died 1930.
Deeply regretted and highly esteemed.
A credit to his community.
Every mans work shall be made manifest.
Three times, in a mechanical fashion, Paul repeated that final phrase under his breath, realizing that with Gillett gone, now more than ever must he try to find James Swann. He spun round resolutely and walked rapidly away.
Presently he was knocking at the door of a basement house which stood in a row behind the Corn Market. A respectable middle-aged woman in a blue check wrapper came out into the area beneath him.
"I am looking for Mr. Swann . . . Mr. James Swann." Paul made an effort to keep his tone matter of fact. "I understand he lived here some time ago."
"Yes," the woman admitted. "He had a room here for many a month. But he's gone these two years back."
"Where did he go?"
The woman considered. "I had nothing against the poor man ... he paid his rent when he could. You wouldn't be seeking him for anything wrong?"
"Oh, no," Paul said quickly. "Quite the contrary."
"Well, then ... he went to a lodging-house in Ware Street. I don't know the number, but it's kept by a man called Hart."
Ware Street was not more than half a mile away, a long poor thoroughfare traversing a congested area of the city, lined with cheap shops and hucksters' barrows, choked with traffic, reverberating with the noise of passing trams. By consulting the city directory in a branch post office, Paul succeeded in locating the Hart lodging-house.
This was a brick tenement situated in a squalid court, hemmed in by tall, smoke-grimed buildings and approached by a narrow entrance. The bell-pull had been torn from its socket, leaving a ragged hole, and there was no knocker on the dilapidated
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door. Paul rapped repeatedly with his knuckles on the blistered panels. Presently, there appeared a boy of twelve with a dirty face and swollen neck glands wrapped up in a strip of red flannel.
"There's no one home," he announced in a husky voice, before Paul could speak. He explained that he was sick, had been kept home from school and, when questioned, declared that all the men who lodged in the house were at work, mostly at the foundry. He knew of no one by the name of Swann. His mother, who looked after the place, would be back at four o'clock.
Having told the boy that he would return, Paul retreated through the alley and regained the garish expanse of Ware Street. He could not remain idle, his nerves were taut for action. An impulse, which had been gathering within him since the previous night, drove him once again to the public library.
It was now afternoon and the same clerk was on duty. As Paul came through the swing doors he was idling, rather dreamily, at the desk, but when he raised his head and perceived Paul he straightened, and watched him with gathering attention as he traversed the length of the reading room. He accepted in silence the slip that was handed to him.
"That is my address now," Paul felt compelled to explain. "I'm staying for a few days."
The clerk nodded and pressed the bell for the attendant. When the man had gone he opened a drawer beneath his desk.
"On your last visit you left some notes in the file. Here they are."
Paul stared at the sheet of paper — he had begun to make a precis of the case but had soon abandoned it. His instinct told him that despite the other's detachment he had undoubtedly read these notes, had taken pains to examine the newspaper file, and perhaps even guessed his identity.
"I don't really want the sheet," he said, then added, "but thank you for saving it."
The young man gazed at him in a peculiar manner with those bright, bird-like, interested eyes.
"Those things should be torn up."
Paul watched him destroy the sheet. At this point the attendant
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reappeared burdened with two heavy folios — bound copies or the Courier for the year 1922. Paul followed him to a nearby table, sat down, and opened up the first volume.
Diligently, running his finger down each column, he scrutinized every page. It was tedious work and made his eyeballs ache. But he persisted, passing to the second folio when he had gone through the first. When he had completed his examination he sat back in his chair, frowning, rubbing his forehead with his hand. The clock beneath the dome showed that it was past four o'clock. Mindful of his appointment, he rose to return the files.
"Did you find what you wanted?" The clerk made the inquiry sound like part of the regular routine. Yet, somehow, Paul sensed a lively curiosity in that simple question.
"No, I didn't."
There was a pause. He knew the other would not speak again. He had only to walk away to terminate the encounter. However, in some strange way, he felt that the young librarian by the mere act of withholding speech, and by a slyly calculated invitation in his eye, had given him, almost impudently, yet with the best intentions, an opening, and all at once he was swept by a desire to confide in him.
"I was looking for the report of a case where a police inspector named Swann was tried and convicted in the year 1922."
The clerk was surprised, but he concealed it.
"That shouldn't be difficult. If I come across it in one of the other files I'll put it aside for you." He paused. "Are you ... interested in the gentleman?"
"I'm trying to locate him."
"Any idea of where to look?" The question came smartly.
"He's probably still in the neighbourhood. By all accounts he's down and out."
"I see."
There was a silence. Paul stood a moment, then, confused now by his lack of reticence, he thanked the other in a few awkward words, put on his hat, and went out of the library.
He k
ept on walking in the direction of Ware Street, and at five o'clock reached the Hart lodging-house, to find that the land-
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lady had returned. She was a stout woman in a merino skirt, with a check shawl across her shoulders, and upon her head, skewered by two black imitation jet hatpins, a man's cloth cap.
"Yes," she admitted, "I remember Swann, well enough. Down on his luck, he was. Got sick and couldn't hold his job at the works. Too much lifting of the elbow, if you follow me. I wasn't sorry when he left."
"When did he leave?"
"Ah, about six months ago."
"You don't know where he went?"
"Now you're asking me. To Bromlea I think it was, to work on the new building scheme."
"That's quite near, isn't it?"
"Near enough . . . about three miles out."
"Did he leave you his address?"
"Swann wasn't the man to leave no address. You'd never get a word out of him nohow. But wait a minute, let me think. He did say he was expecting a letter and for me to send it on if it came, which it never did. The question is, did I write it down." She turned to the boy who stood listening in the back hall. "Fetch me the book from the room, Josey."
A moment later the boy brought her a battered dog-eared ledger. Moistening her forefinger, she began to flick over the pages.
"Ah, what's this, now? Didn't I tell you."
Drawing near, with a sudden surge of hope, Paul peered at the place she indicated. There, scrawled in pencil on the dirty page, was the address he sought:
James Swann, c/o Roberts, 15 Castle Road, Bromlea.
Quickly, he copied it in his notebook, thanked the woman and made his escape. As he hastened down the narrow alley, now lit by a single feeble lamp, he felt that the day had been far from wasted. He was really on the track of Swann, had even
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glimpsed a picture of the man — wretched, down at heel, sinking lower and lower, drowning his sorrows, labouring with his bare hands for the necessities of existence. It was too late to go to Bromlea tonight. But he would go tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow he would find Swann.
CHAPTER IX
ON the following evening, precisely twenty-four hours later, Paul was again on his way back to the Y.M.C.A. A steady rain had been falling since early afternoon, but he walked on, unconscious of his sodden shoes and saturated clothing. All his high hopes were gone, all his great expectations dashed and shattered. He had been to Bromlea, had visited the address given him by the lodging-house keeper, talked with the building contractor for whom Swann had worked, combed the district from end to end, and all without the least avail. Swann was gone, vanished without trace.
Despondently, Paul entered the hotel and slowly climbed the stairs to his room. Dropping a coin in the meter slot, he lit the gas fire in the little cubicle. Then, as he straightened himself, he noticed a telegram on the mantel. He tore it open and read:
DREADFULLY ANXIOUS RETURN AT ONCE SUMMER SCHOOL APPOINTMENT AWAITING YOU LOVE FROM ALL.
MOTHER
Crouching before the tiny fire, while the steam arose from his damp suit, he re-read the message. Yes, it was natural that she should beg him to return and indeed, in his present mood, he wondered if this were not the only course for him to pursue. Absence had softened his feeling towards his mother. Apparently she had spoken to Professor Slade, more probably she had asked Pastor Fleming to do so — and the position at Portray was still open to him. The phrase "love from all" made him smile a
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trifle bitterly, so patently did it include the affection of a forgiving Ella.
When he had dried out he turned off the gas and went downstairs to get a meal. Then, in the lobby, as he was about to enter the dining hall, he saw the door-boy coming towards him.
"There's a young fellow to see you. He's in the visitors' room."
Surprised, Paul followed the boy to the musty little lounge, furnished with stiff cane chairs and a potted palm, modestly screened by a bead curtain, and set apart for the reception of guests. As he pushed through the clicking beads he perceived with a start, seated on one of the cane chairs, the clerk from the library.
Paul advanced hesitantly.
"Good evening."
"You didn't expect to see me."
"No, I didn't."
The young librarian accepted this directness with a quick, lively smile. Detached from his official position he was perkier than ever, with a naive and ingratiating frankness that was disarming yet, to Paul, in his present mood, almost an embarrassment.
"I've something to say to you." His glance briskly swept the empty room. "I suppose we can talk here without being overheard."
Paul stared so hard the other gave a short chuckle.
"I realise you don't quite get me yet, but I'm quite a decent sort. My name's Boulia . . . Mark Boulia."
He held out his hand, Paul gripped it, then sat down. The situation was beginning to give him a sensation of queer expectation. Mark studied him quizzically before he resumed.
"That first day at the library I watched you — I couldn't help it, you were so obviously ... in difficulties. I felt sorry for you, and friendly too. You know how it is, how you take to a person at first sight. Afterwards I went through the file." He made, not without self-satisfaction, the statement of fact. "I know who you are and all about you."
All this Paul had surmised. He kept silent, listening intently as the other went on.
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"Yesterday you were looking for some further references. You didn't trace them. But when you had gone, I did. In one paper, only one, the Clarion, a liberal paper with practically no circulation, I found a comment on the Swann trial. Oddly enough it was a protest against the extreme harshness of Swann's sentence."
Paul's face was pale, unreadable, yet with a dark fire burning in his eyes. At last he said:
"Why are you telling me this?"
Mark shrugged, drew down his lips in a half-humorous smile.
"Because you wanted to find Swann."
Paul shook his head slowly. "It's no good."
"Why not?"
"Not after fifteen years."
"Don't be too sure." Mark's eyes sparkled, his air turned slightly jaunty. He waited just long enough to make his words important. "As a matter of fact, I have found him."
Paul felt his mouth turn dry. He stared unbelievingly at this odd individual who nodded with alert composure.
"It wasn't too difficult . . . after what you told me. I took a flyer and checked the relief lists, also the registers of the work house, and of all the city hospitals. Swann is in Belvedere Infirmary."
CHAPTER X
THE ward where Swann lay was long and narrow, with whitewashed walls and a sloping ceiling containing a row of fanlight windows. This was the pauper ward of the infirmary, a bare and dismal dormitory. The bed, completely screened off, was raised upon wooden blocks, and on the floor there lay an oxygen cylinder equipped with a long inhaler. The indefinable smell of sickness, of organic dissolution, had even imposed itself over the pungent odour of carbolic.
Propped on two pillows, Swann lay with his limbs extended,
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his eyes upturned to the ceiling. His frame showed that he had been a big man, but now he was much emaciated and his sunken face — the drawn cheeks exaggerating the length of the nose — showed yellow against the white coverslip, with a curious bronze mottling of the skin. His fingers, limp on the counterpane, had thickened ends. His shallow, listless breathing barely disturbed the contour of his ribs.
It was the afternoon visiting hour and, beside the bed, Paul stood with Mark Boulia. They had arrived ten minutes ago and Mark, not without tact, had made Paul known to the sick man. Paul had then made an impassioned plea. And now, overcome by the significance of the moment, he waited tensely for Swann to speak.
Swann did not hurry, he had his own thoughts. But presently, without moving, he l
et his eyes fall on Paul and after a pause, remarked in a faint, hoarse tone:
"You're like him."
He then returned his gaze to the fanlight and was silent for a long time before resuming in that same spent voice.
"It's queer I should see you now. After what happened to me I swore I'd keep my mouth shut — I was a fool ever to open it. But you're Mathry's son. And I'm done for anyway. So here goes."
A short pause — Swann seemed to be looking deep into the past.
"When I was assigned to the Eldon murder case I was keen as mustard — a bit different to what I am now — and I remember like it was yesterday when the big clue came in. A bookie's tout named Rocca turned up at headquarters. . . . Yes, flash Harry Rocca ... a weak-kneed rotter if ever I saw one, and in such a state of panic he could scarcely talk. But he did talk, and what he said was this — he'd been friendly with the murdered woman over a period of twelve months, had gone home to sleep with her often, and had spent the night with her on September seventh. But he'd had nothing; to do with the murder, he couldn't have, because on September eighth and ninth he'd been in Doncaster, at the races, and had a dozen witnesses to prove it. He'd come forward voluntarily to clear his name.
"Well, this didn't help us much, we knew that Spurling had
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a pretty wide circle of admirers, but we thought we'd detain Rocca anyhow. When he heard that he was to be held he turned green and really spilled the beans. He told us about his pal, Rees Mathry, who had been sweet on Spurling. He told us how worried Mathry had been about the publicity we had given the hand-sketched post card. Above all, he told us about Mathry's attempt to fake an alibi. Now this news was wonderful for us — after being stuck for nearly three weeks we had a red-hot trail to follow. And the things got hotter when we found that the man we were after had just left for the port of Liverpool. We telephoned Liverpool at once and Rees Mathry was picked up."
